


The True Meaning of Poinsettias

by hideyseek



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Holidays, Humor, Idiots in Love, Innuendo, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Misunderstandings, New Year's Eve, New Years, Not Christmas, Secret Saito Gift Exchange, Secret Saito Gift Exchange 2020, Snark, arthur frets and makes plans, eames watches pride and prejudice and it makes him feel feelings (implied), poinsettias
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:54:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28444980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hideyseek/pseuds/hideyseek
Summary: Arthur’s resolved to stop being in love with Eames by the end of the year, but it’s December 31st and he’s running out of time.Or, Arthur visits Eames on New Year’s Eve.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 101
Collections: Secret Saito 2020





	The True Meaning of Poinsettias

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Itneveroccurredtomeatall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itneveroccurredtomeatall/gifts).



> very many thanks to the Secret Saito mods, and to Itneveroccurredtomeatall for the prompt, _warmth_! i had a most excellent time running amok with your prompt, i hope you get a laugh out of the resulting fic <3
> 
> also, an unbelievably large thank you to my beta [musings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/musingsofaretiredunicorn), who basically hand-held me through titling, summary-writing, and the last round of edits while i chose instead to be a gay disaster.
> 
> fun fact: the working title for this fic was “poinsettias mean i want to fuck you”

A poinsettia is tasteful and holidayish and undeniably platonic, Arthur consoles himself. Botanically speaking, it’s just a bundle of leaves that are mostly the wrong color. People do not give poinsettias to people they want to fuck, the airport salesperson had practically said that verbatim. 

Well. The airport salesperson had said, _That’s a very nice plant there, lad. Very handsome, if I say so myself._ But people definitely don’t give poinsettias to people they’re in love with, Arthur’s sure of it. And Arthur is definitely not in love with Eames. 

To be honest, Arthur maybe possibly probably _is_. But more importantly, Arthur is using tonight to put an end to that situation once and for all. So it may as well be false. 

He shifts the poinsettia onto the forming bruise on his other hip with both hands and elbows Eames’ doorbell again. Eames’ doorbell is, like Eames’ front porch, not protected from the rain. It’s all terrible design, really.

According to all electronic correspondence, Arthur is alone in his West Coast apartment with enough takeout to keep him for a week. According to his list of last year’s resolutions, Arthur is in England to _tell Eames I’m not interested in him_ , as part of the bigger resolution called _stop letting Eames distract me from work and my other life responsibilities by not expecting more than a one-night stand, like I did_. 

Sure, Arthur is soaking wet, but Arthur is also resolved. He knows that he’s been terrible about the resolution all year, but it’s New Year’s Eve, and he still has thirty-nine minutes to make this right. He knows himself, and he knows he can do this. 

Eames opens the door wearing sweatpants. Sweatpants, and nothing else. 

Jesus fucking Christ. Arthur’s resolve is apparently actually _terrible_ , in the face of Eames’ tattoos all being _right there_. Arthur glances involuntarily at Eames’ shoulders. Eames takes the opportunity to roll them, in case Arthur hadn’t already been fucking looking.

Arthur shoves the poinsettia at Eames and says, “Take this and shut up for a minute.” 

Eames takes the poinsettia in one hand with a quiet _oof_ and then says, “Good _evening_ , darling. What brings you to my humble abode?” The man can catch his breath irritatingly fast. Arthur shouldn’t have left his luggage cart out in his haste to get into his taxi from Heathrow, the universe is already trying to even things out. 

“ _Hello_ ,” says Arthur irritably. Eames’ stupid British roof drips rainwater into Arthur’s eye, and he has to blink like a maniac for a minute. His eyelashes end up stuck together, which is just perfect. “Listen, Eames,” he starts. 

Quick and dirty. He can just say it and leave, never mind how Eames feels. Arthur’s a fucking global criminal, _someone else’s feelings_ shouldn’t be a problem for him. Sure, his taxi isn’t idling by the gate the way he’d requested, but he’s got a phone. He can just get a rideshare. He can _walk_. He can just—

“Come in before you freeze to death,” says Eames impatiently. “I know you Californians can’t stand anything below sixteen degrees.” Arthur registers belatedly that Eames might also have said something like, _What are you doing here?_ or _Are you alright?_

Arthur half-expects Eames to conduct a full interrogation of his motives right there on the porch, but Eames just grabs Arthur by the wrist and drags him inside. It’s a bizarre and unfortunate turn of events. Arthur had spent good time making and rehearsing an excellent plan for this whole situation that involved getting everything done on Eames’ porch. A plan that would finish well before midnight, and end with Arthur saying something suave and cutting, and ducking back into his taxi. 

But his taxi isn’t fucking there anymore, and it’s more than a little distracting that Eames can carry the poinsettia one-handed, and Eames is saying, “What you’re here for should really wait until we’re both dry and comfortable, darling.” 

Arthur frowns at that, but it’s also a little distracting that Eames’ arm-chest-shoulder situation is happening _right next to_ Arthur the whole trip inside, and Arthur has to stop questioning what Eames thinks is happening in favor of reminding himself that he does want to do what he came here to do, actually, and that he’ll be better for it in the long run. Probably. Possibly. Maybe. 

“I’m not some kind of _temperature elitist_ ,” Arthur splutters when Eames deposits him neatly in his tiny bathroom. “I’m just very specific about what I like.” Eames is already walking out of the room with the poinsettia. Arthur pointedly doesn’t look at the shift of his back muscles and shouts after him, “Make sure you treat that poinsettia with _respect!”_

Eames sends him a sarcastic salute, and then disappears into his hallway.

There’s a bathroom clock on the lid of Eames’ toilet with a little ceramic duckie on it. Arthur glares at it and refuses to find it endearing. Just past 11:30. In the version of this he’d practiced in the taxi, Arthur would have been done by now. 

Actually coming to Eames’ home to tell Eames he didn’t like him in order to prove that Arthur’s over him might be the stupidest thing Arthur’s done recently. Except for the Fischer job. And the one-night-stand with Eames after said Fischer job. 

He’d thrown out the note Eames left after the post-Fischer fiasco, as Arthur’s started thinking of it, but six consecutive read-throughs had apparently been enough to memorize it. _Had a wonderful time with you last night, darling_ , Eames had written _. Off to the Wong job now, I’ll see you for our next extraction in three weeks!_ _-E_

Reciprocating turning him down didn’t have to be harsh, Arthur had decided. It just had to be clear, and for his own sake, it had to be gotten over with quickly. He’d worked every job but one this year with Eames, and he’d still needed a last-minute flight out to actually say it to the man. 

But the point of this is exactly to protect himself from doing that sort of thing again, Arthur reminds himself, so he can bear his own stupidity for a while longer. 

Arthur blows out a breath and sinks down to sit on the toilet seat. There’s an unpleasant squelching sound. Arthur jolts back upright. The unpleasant squelching sound is even more unpleasant in reverse. 

“Eurgh,” says Arthur into the very loud silence.

“No kidding,” says Eames behind him. Arthur whirls around. He’s wearing a shirt now, thank god. He’s also holding a stack of haphazardly-folded clothing. 

“Oh, Eames, good,” says Arthur. “Listen, I just need a minute, and then I’ll be out of your hair, alright? A taxi will still take me to the airport even if I’m w—” Arthur closes his mouth on the word _wet._ “Even if I’m, uh. Damp.”

“Sure,” says Eames like he’s talking to a particularly stupid fourteen-year-old. He’s nodding, even. Arthur resents this. “I don’t have a problem with you being… _damp_ ,” Eames says, and grins. He sets his stack of clothing on the edge of the sink. “But I thought you might be more comfortable in something dry. Just for a bit, until you’re warmed up,” he adds. “No need to stay in them for any longer than strictly necessary.” He makes a smug shape with his mouth, and Arthur’s heartbeat picks up.

“Those are pajamas,” Arthur says. Specifically, they’re _Eames’_ pajamas. 

Eames leers at him. “Imagine them on the floor of my bedroom, why don’t you.” 

_Yes,_ Arthur thinks reflexively, and then, _No!_

Under absolutely _no circumstances_ can Arthur let himself be convinced into _wearing Eames’ clothes_ , ever. Under no circumstances can Arthur let Eames be _nice_ to him right now. That would be a recipe for disaster. Arthur knows how to spot these things, it’s practically his whole job description. 

“No!” Arthur yelps. He clears his throat. “No,” Arthur says again, this time like a calm and rational person. “Really. Eames, it’s fine. I don’t need your...clothes. I just need a quick favor, nothing too serious, I promise.” 

Eames looks more startled than Arthur asking for help should warrant. “You need a _favor_?” He rubs his knuckles quickly over his mouth and then shoves his hands into his pockets. “Is this for a job? You know I’m booked through May, and it’s a little early for the autumn gigs.”

He sounds _disappointed_ , which is absurd. _Arthur_ hadn’t been the one to leave after a perfectly excellent night of with just a note and a reference to their next job. Arthur stares at him.

Eames tilts his head suddenly, mouth broadening into a smirk. “Oh, I see,” he drawls, “you’re here to ask for a forging favor. No need to be embarrassed, Arthur. Sometimes crime does happen in the material world. Do you need documents, perhaps?” His smirk grows. “Artwork? It’s been a bit since I did any Warhol, and I hear Ms. Munroe is feeling quite claustrophobic in the Tate.” 

If only the universe had provided him something like that. “No,” Arthur says reluctantly, wishing he’d thought of that first. But he has no expertise on art or art theft to back it up, even if he played along. “It’s not … strictly for a particular job.” This is true. “I’m actually here to—” he looks at Eames and he stumbles. 

“I’m here for— flash drive,” says Arthur. This is neither true nor grammatically coherent, and is also nothing close to what he meant to say.

Eames frowns a little, like he could tell. Arthur stares at the little line between Eames’ eyebrows, and he can’t say he doesn’t like him. He just can’t say it at all. 

Thank god his whole job involves lying to people about what’s happening to them. 

“I just wanted to see if you had the files from that job you did last month with Wong,” Arthur says quickly. Best to ask for something Eames probably doesn’t have, feign disappointment, and get the fuck out so he can try this another day. He’s never been good at making things up from nothing.

Arthur hears himself add, “I got a tip that something about the accounts could help with being able to determine whether a client had engaged any militarization services.” Which is a crock full of shit.

“The accounts?” asks Eames dubiously, right on cue. Unfortunately, Arthur never manages to be attracted to idiots. “That sort of thing is never paid for like that, in my experience. What did the tip say the accounts have to do with—“

“Oh, I didn’t think it was absolutely serious,” Arthur backtracks. “Or— or, anything in that direction.” The best lies are rooted in truth. “It was more that—” he’s really doing this, apparently “— it was a New Year’s resolution of mine for this year, to. Follow up on things people said to me.” He stares at a puddle on Eames’ tile floor and adds, “About work.” 

Miraculously, Eames takes the bait. "I see,” he says, and his hands come out of his pockets. “Get everything in that little black notebook of yours crossed off, hm?" He says _little black notebook_ the way other people might say _little black dress._

Arthur wants to tell him not to make his work notebook sound _so dirty, Eames, Jesus Christ._ But he can’t. He can’t have that because he came here to _get over Eames_. He can’t have that because he was an _idiot_ at the start of the year who’d managed to convince himself that saying _I don’t really like you all that much, Eames_ would come anywhere near dispelling the amount of affection and attraction he has for him. Arthur wants to go back in time and shake himself until his past self realizes that actually, making this task into a serious resolution is the worst possible idea. 

He needs to leave, Arthur realizes abruptly. He needs to leave and put on dry clothes that have nothing to do with Eames’ kindness. He needs to leave and go somewhere he’s never been with Eames, or talked about with Eames, or thought about while he was with Eames. He needs to leave, or he’ll never do this.

Arthur stands, and then Eames is _right there_ , they’re standing in Eames’ tiny bathroom, chest-to-chest. Outside, the rain picks up, and Arthur’s heart catches the tempo and speeds up, too. Eames’ hands are cupping Arthur’s elbows gently like he’d moved them on automatic, and it’s too much. 

It’s too fucking much. 

“Not everything,” says Arthur in response to Eames’ question, far, far too late. The pile of Eames’ folded clothing is still there on the edge of the sink, and Arthur can’t stop looking at it. He needs to stop looking at it, or he’s going to do something inadvisable. Like— like yell, or start crying, or kiss Eames right on his beautiful mouth. 

What a way that would be to end this fucking year. 

“I have to go,” says Arthur. It comes out too sharp, and he tries to soften it. “I, sorry. This was a mistake, I have to—” _Try this again next year, I guess._

“What about the files?” says Eames softly. He still hasn’t let go of Arthur’s elbows, and he looks so fucking concerned. “Even if neither of us really thinks the account tip will work out, I can still get you the files. It’ll just take a few calls, if you don’t mind waiting.”

If he doesn’t mind _waiting_. Arthur is pretty sure this is what hysterical feels like. As if _he_ hasn’t been waiting just over a year for Eames to give any signal about where the hell he’s willing to take their relationship. About what he wants from their relationship, so Arthur can compromise and meet him there. 

Arthur opens his mouth and can’t think of a single thing to say next that could be remotely believable. 

He pulls away from Eames’ touch and pushes past him, hand on Eames’ hands for a breathless moment. “There were no files, Eames,” he says, stopped in the doorway. He sounds exhausted. He _feels_ exhausted. “I had no good reason to come here at all.”

“Darling?” says Eames, which is colossally unfair. 

“I came here to tell you I don’t really like you at all that much,” Arthur says in a miserable rush. “So that you would stop flirting with me without— without meaning it. So I could get over— ” This is a mistake. He should have just waited, made another plan, made it so when he said it to Eames he would say it _right_. He makes himself inhale, count to ten. The _least_ he can do now is tell Eames properly. 

“So I could stop waiting for you to say something,” he says, and that’s a little better, “about what you were willing to have with me after … the Fischer job.” He looks at the floor so he isn’t looking at Eames, or the clothing. “And then you were _nice_ to me, so I didn’t,” he says quietly. “Couldn’t, more like.” 

Arthur looks at the clock. 11:47.

“That was it,” he finishes. “The last thing in my ‘little black book’.” He lifts his hand to make some belated air quotes. 

Eames gapes at him. “But you brought me _flowers_ ,” he says. He pokes an accusing finger in Arthur’s direction. “If you weren’t trying to proposition me, why did you turn up all wet and holding _flowers_?” 

This is not what’s supposed to happen next. Arthur isn’t sure what _should_ , but Eames explaining that he’d spent the night so far convinced Arthur was here for a second round is _not right_.

“They’re nice flowers,” Eames adds encouragingly, when Arthur doesn’t say anything. “I like them.”

“I didn’t— a poinsettia isn’t a _flower_. It’s a bunch of _leaves_ , they just happen to be shaped the way they are. They can’t help it!” Arthur frowns. “And I wasn’t trying to _proposition you,_ clearly, I was being polite! Because I came here to— ” _Turn you down_ isn’t quite right when he isn’t specifically rejecting any advances. And anyway, that cat’s out of the bag.

“Turn me down,” Eames offers. 

“Yeah, whatever,” Arthur mumbles. 

“By giving me flowers." 

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Still just leaves, Eames.”

“Good job of it you did,” Eames adds, and Arthur flips him off on instinct. His wet jacket sleeve slaps him in the wrist. Eames grins, briefly. Then he says, serious again, “Would you still turn me down now? How important is it to you to, er, get over our post-Fischer fuck?” 

Eames is, unbelievably, red at the ears. This is absurd. Arthur looks and feels like a drowned rat, and Eames is _blushing._ “Are you _offering?_ ” says Arthur in disbelief. 

“I—” says Eames. He’s really, actually red. Eames coughs. “You need to understand,” he says hoarsely. “I do like you for reasons that aren’t just how you look. But I’ve spent the last year convinced you were more interested in working together than in a second round—” Arthur groans “—and the.”

Eames knocks his closed fists softly against his thighs, and when he looks back up at Arthur, it’s through his eyelashes. “This disheveled, Darcy-just-in-from-the-rain look you’re sporting at the moment. It’s really something, darling.” 

Arthur hears himself make a strangled sort of noise. “I wouldn’t turn you down right now,” he says, fast and falling over the words. “I won’t turn you down at all.” 

And then Eames is kissing him, and outside his open window an early firework goes off with a boom. Eames is backing Arthur up against his bathroom counter and kissing him, ten minutes too soon. 

"I—" Arthur starts, when they break apart. He tightens his grip on the back of Eames’ shirt, and says, “That was very nice.” 

Eames’ hands are tangled in Arthur’s hair. “It was,” he agrees, and the little line between his eyebrows is gone, he’s just beaming at Arthur. “Want to go be more horizontal?” He waggles his eyebrows. “Get you out of these wet clothes.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Start the new year off with a... bang?” he says. 

“Precisely, darling,” says Eames, eyes crinkling. Outside, there’s cheering as the fireworks go off for real. 

**Author's Note:**

> have feelings about these lads? want to yell about them? find me on tumblr [@hideyseek](https://hideyseek.tumblr.com/)


End file.
